


Two Garridebs and an Evans

by SolaScientia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolaScientia/pseuds/SolaScientia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing would stop them.  Nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Garridebs and an Evans

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the letswritesherlock challenge 1 on tumblr. Challenge 1 Prompt: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
> 
> This is unbate-ed; my apologies for any errors I didn't catch. Also, this is my first foray into writing Sherlock fiction (despite voraciously reading it). I hope it's acceptable.

John slammed the door shut behind him as Sherlock gave the directions to the cabbie. He kept his mouth firmly shut. John had absolutely no intentions of engaging Sherlock in conversation before getting back to their flat. He knew he shouldn’t be too angry with Sherlock; while it wasn’t out of the ordinary for them to deviate from a plan, particularly when things got out of hand, but they were usually able to avoid a visit to A&E. Three hours was more than John had wanted to put up with after the last four days, and it was only three hours because Sherlock kept moving around and not letting them see to his ribs, head, and wrist, and because Greg opted to get their statements immediately rather than waiting till morning. John’s thigh had needed sutures, but that hadn’t taken long at all, and it had been worth it for him to be certain of Sherlock’s regard for him.

John glanced to his left. He knew Sherlock knew that he was angry with him, hence Sherlock staring determinedly out the window. Sherlock could rival most five year olds when it came to sulking, temper tantrums, and general avoidance when he wanted.

The taxi halted outside 221 and for once Sherlock was stuck paying their fare instead of John. John, meanwhile, unlocked the door and stomped up the seventeen stairs to their rooms. He promptly situated himself in his chair by the cheerfully lit fireplace; it wasn’t quite as impressive as standing in front of the mantel, but it would have to do. Getting shot in the leg also hadn’t been one of the things on his to-do list. 

“John.” John was jerked out of his thoughts by Sherlock hanging up his coat and heading towards him.

“Why didn’t you wait for Greg and the others, Sherlock?” John watched as Sherlock carefully sank into his own chair. “What were you thinking? They could have handled Garri-”

“Winter.” Sherlock quietly corrected.

“I don’t give a shit about his name. They could have captured him and the other two without our help. You’ve got cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, and a concussion. I’m amazed you don’t have more injuries than those.” He wasn’t lying. Sherlock had been alone with them for nearly an hour before John burst through the rotting doors of the derelict factory.

_Four and a half hours earlier_

“Sherlock!” John came to a stop as he took in the scene before him. One of the large, burly men was holding Sherlock’s arms tightly behind his back as the other burly man, obviously, even to John, his twin repeated hit Sherlock about the face and abdomen. A third, smaller man stood nearby laughing.

Sherlock raised his head at John’s shout. “John!” He called out. “Armed.”

“Hold him. I’ll take care of Dr. Watson myself. It’s not so often that I get two for the price of one, but I figured you would follow Mr. Holmes sooner or later. Thank you for being so prompt.” Polite. The scrawny bastard was polite. John almost hated polite murderers more than the less polite ones; at least those were a bit more honest. Polite ones just reminded him of Moriarty.

John kept the Sig raised as the scraggy man stepped closer, and he tightened his grip as the man produced a small Walther PPK. 

“Winter. James Winter. But you probably know me better as Evans. Always best to use an alias or three.”

“Stop or I’ll shoot.”

“Really?” Winter, Garrideb, or whoever the hell he was kept moving closer. “You’d risk your friend just to kill me?”

John took a quick glance at Sherlock to see that the moron not pinning Sherlock’s arms had raised a gun to his forehead; John gave an almost imperceptible nod. He turned his attention back to Winter as Sherlock started to move. The grunt behind him fell after he met with one of Sherlock’s rather pointy elbows to his groin and then his solar plexus. He dove for the one before him and they began wrestling for the gun.

“Just you and me then, eh, Dr. Watson?” The slimy bastard was barely five feet from John now and he kept on walking.

“Don’t. Stop there.” 

“Watch it!” John instinctively turned his head to Sherlock’s shout. Sherlock, who was lying on the filthy factory floor with both arms wrapped around the other man’s legs. The other man had shifted his attention to John. 

Just then John felt an all-too-familiar searing pain in his leg as he heard the report of a Winter’s Walther. 

“John!” Sherlock had managed to regain his footing despite his aching ribs. He deftly took out the second grunt and took off after Winter as John sank down to one knee, one hand automatically going for his thigh as the other held the Sig as steadily as he could as Winter ran towards the entrance.

Sherlock, fuelled by adrenaline and fear, tackled him to the floor and cracked him across the back of the head with man’s own pistol. Satisfied that he was out for the count, he hurried back to John.

“Are you all right?” He grabbed John by the shoulders before reaching for the gunshot wound. His face bearing one of the worst expressions John had ever seen, and John had seen Sherlock display a wide variety of expressions, whether for pretend or real. It was a mixed of pure rage and fear, a dangerous combination.

“It’s just a graze, I’m fine. Nothing a few sutures won’t fix.”

“He is lucky it’s just that. His corpse would never be found were it not the case, and I don’t think Lestrade would have tried too hard to find it either.”

“Sherlock, I’m fine, really. Greg should be here in a few minutes. I ran ahead after I called him.”

_Now_

“You’re lucky I ignored Greg and got there before them. He looked about ready to kill you even when I arrived. Why didn’t you wait?”

“Oh, he was ready. Would have been another ten minutes at most before he got tired of the hitting and just killed me. I didn’t wait, because we would have lost them. They would have disappeared into the underbelly of whatever city they wanted and left not enough of a trail for even me to follow.” Sherlock always managed to sound very matter-of-fact after he’d just escaped with his life.

John had to admit that Sherlock had a point. There was just one more thing.

“Would you really have done that? Killed him and got rid of the body?”

“Yes.” No hesitation at all. “Lestrade would have helped. Even Donovan would have helped, I imagine.”

“Donovan? She still barely tolerates you.”

“She would have for you, though. You underestimate how many people like you, John, and how much they like you. They would have written it off as self-defence if they couldn’t have helped me get rid of the evidence.”

John smiled. He really shouldn't smile, but he did. Ever since his return and his slow integration back into John’s life, Sherlock had been more open with his affections and made no secret for how much he cared for John. The downside was that any of the enemies Sherlock made would often come after John, but that was nothing new in being associated with a man like Sherlock Holmes. And it was worth it. It was worth every wound he sustained from those enemies to know how much Sherlock loved him and what he would do for him to keep him safe or avenge his death. It was worth it, too, because Sherlock knew John would do the very same for him. He had done the same for him, as a matter of fact. 

Sherlock fondly remembered that first night after being introduced to John. There aren’t many who would kill for a man they had met barely twenty-four hours before.

The consulting detective and the doctor sat quietly for a little longer before helping each other into the shower and carefully washing away the smell of the dilapidated factory and hospital disinfectant. They collapsed, carefully, into their bed, and wrapped around one another as they fell asleep.

It wouldn’t be long before they would come across another case that would put one or both their lives at risk, but that wouldn’t stop them. Nothing would.

The End.


End file.
